


Flightlessly

by incredulousanteater



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Bingo Fill, Cuddling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fear of Flying, First Kiss, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Scene Fill, Stargazing, Touch-Starved, Wing Grooming, Wingfic, Wings, mentions of animal death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-09 22:43:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19895548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incredulousanteater/pseuds/incredulousanteater
Summary: Trying to ignore the feeling of diving headfirst, of Falling with no idea of what awaited him at the bottom, he grazed his fingers through white down. Aziraphale didn’t pull away. Didn’t leap to his feet in horror, or protectively curl his wings away from Crowley. He just leaned into the touch, eyes half-closing like a contented cat’s.





	Flightlessly

**Author's Note:**

> Fills my Ineffable Husbands bingo square, “Fear of Flying”. Enjoy!

Falling wasn’t a pleasant experience, at least if you asked Crowley’s opinion of it. It certainly wasn’t anything he wanted to repeat. Once had been more than enough. Worse even than the indescribable agony of the aftermath, the realization that he was forever _cursed_ , was Falling _itself_. Speeding through open air, wings useless, helpless, unable to catch himself. It hadn’t taken that long, he knew, but it always seemed like it had taken eons to finally crash down. 

His nightmares replayed it in terrible detail, were always filled with visions of being cut off from flight, barred from the sky for the rest of his miserable existence. It—falling—was an incredibly common nightmare among humans as well, Crowley had learned. He understood to some degree; who wouldn’t fear Falling? Although they’d never really _known_ what it was to Fall, had they, never listened to wind whistling past or felt the panic of being suddenly flightless when before they’d been a creature of the sky. 

And Crowley had been one: a creature of the sky. He’d loved the sky. Still did. Had a connection to it, stronger than anything else in Creation. He’d helped spin it into essence, after all, the endless expanse of space dusted by countless stars and planets and galaxies. He’d loved flying, too. There was nothing more _freeing_. And Crowley could still fly. In a way. His wings had healed quickly and cleanly. Physically, there was nothing stopping him from flying again, but he’d never tried again, after the Fall. The fear of Falling outweighed any desire to take wing. And, so, in the end, he _was_ forced to crawl upon his belly, even if he himself was the only one doing any forcing. 

—

Aziraphale. The Guardian of the Eastern Gate. He was the first angel Crowley spoke to after the Fall. If he thought the angel was a refreshing change of company from his usual, he kept that thought to himself. He kept it to himself when he saw Aziraphale’s fluffier-than-should-be-acceptable and longed to touch them. _Ached_ to. Angels were meant to be social creatures, and Crowley could recall dimly the comfort of helping one another groom. He didn’t let the thoughts linger as Aziraphale stretched one pearly wing over him, sheltering him from the first storm. 

He would see Aziraphale again, over the course of the ages, of course. They’d come to an Arrangement that Crowley couldn’t be more fond of. Less work, although, that wasn’t the only perk it offered. He couldn’t seem to help enjoying the—however brief—moments spent with the angel. Even if he was inexplicably reminded of falling whenever Aziraphale was around. 

It was sometime at the beginning of the fourteenth century that the two found themselves drinking together, a pastime they’d taken to more frequently as the years slogged on. Aziraphale had let his wings into view and was fretting over the unkempt feathers, which he complained were starting to itch. “It’s such an awful chore, and I don’t have anyone to help down here, you know…I’m sorry, I’m rambling…”

Crowley didn’t miss Heaven, or help grooming his wings, or the feelings of security and love that came with that sort of companionship, because he was a demon, and that wasn’t the sort of thing demons should _miss_. A demon should, however, Crowley believed firmly, take pride in everything they did. And Crowley prided himself on his meticulously sleek ashen wings. It was just a pain sometimes, keeping all the feathers straight, especially those near his back, which had the rather unfortunate tendency to ruffle frequently. That is to say, he could sympathize with Aziraphale’s troubles. 

So without thinking, he reached out for the downy feathers, gently stroking a long white primary. It was much, much softer than Crowley had imagined, (not that he’d spent any time imagining what Aziraphale’s feathers felt like, no, of course not) and a warmth that alcohol couldn’t compare to washed over him at the contact. 

Which didn’t last very long, because when the angel whose feathers he was touching noticed, he jerked his wings away with a gasp, sobering up as he scrambled to his feet hastily. 

“I just…I could help with them,” Crowley offered weakly from his vantage point on the floor, wanting nothing except to _feel_ that exquisite warmth again. 

Aziraphale drew his wings close, eyes unreadable. But he smoothed the primary roughly like Crowley’s touch was something filthy. Something to be washed away. Like a snake slithering across the ground, eating dust as he went. 

“I don’t think so,” Aziraphale said, and his voice was kept carefully neutral. Cold and detached in a way that made Crowley repress a shudder, heart plummeting to the depths of his stomach, just as he had plummeted from the sky all that time ago. 

The angel looked down upon him, a reminder. He’d always look down upon Crowley, as an angel, a bringer of divinity and truth, so far above Crowley, a demon, an agent of wickedness and deceit, that it didn’t bear thinking about. 

And it was nearly a hundred years before Aziraphale spoke to him again. 

—

It was the nineteenth century now. This was an alright meeting place, as far as meeting places went, Crowley supposed. Smelled of horse, but he’d gotten used to it, even if the beasts would never get used to _him_. And he _was_ standing right near a bridleway. 

He stalked away from it, crossing the grass to find the reason he’d come here. Aziraphale stood by the banks of the man-made Serpentine. Crowley approved the name, although, really—he’d had nothing to do with it. 

The angel spared Crowley a fleeting glance as he joined him by the waterside, quickly returning it to flicker between the workmen busy with the construction of what looked to be a bridge, and they looked on in silence awhile, until a raven landed nearby with a loud croak. 

Aziraphale smiled at it. “You know—”

“No,” Crowley said, voice curt. The raven fixed him with beady eyes, hopping from side to side in that unnerving way that ravens do, almost a taunt. He didn’t have much of a way with animals, but birds shared a specially distrustful place in his heart. 

“To business, then,” Aziraphale assented, dropping whatever he’d been about to say. They ended spending a fair chunk of the evening discussing _business_ in the park, Crowley keeping a wary eye on the raven the entire time. It turned out that the raven was a particularly mischievous creature, bold and unperturbed by the humans and their horses. The bird enjoyed pecking at random passerby’s ankles (wisely, it avoided Crowley), and boasted gleeful flying skills. 

So, as they ended up using the spot for meetings again, Crowley found himself warming up to the raven, not that he’d admit it. Aziraphale was always eager to see the damn thing too, tossing it breadcrumbs on occasion. But the raven was a living thing, and as all living things meet their end eventually, so, too, did the raven. 

The morning it was found drowned in the Serpentine was a bright, sun-washed one. 

The wretched creature’s recently-clipped wings had been splayed open across the murky water in a sickening mockery of flight, and Crowley discovered himself averting his eyes as it was fished, damp and lifeless, from the water by one of the humans. Flashes, memories, twisted bitterly through his mind, visions of Falling. 

He turned to leave. 

“Crowley…” Aziraphale’s tone sounded choked, and he looked back, waiting. Chalked it up to imagination when the angel gave a soft shake of his head, blue eyes stormy. 

Later on, he learned, via Aziraphale, that the raven had been stolen from the park, returned with its wings clipped. Flightless. It was surmised that, devastated by the loss, the raven had drowned itself. 

That was the last time Crowley and Aziraphale met at Hyde Park. St. James’ was nicer, anyways, the two had agreed. 

Still, the image of the raven’s sodden wings wouldn’t leave Crowley for a long time afterwards, and he woke from terrors of plunging headlong through emptiness every time he tried to sleep until he came to a conclusion that had perhaps been there since the first time he’d seen Aziraphale in Eden.

— 

Crowley would’ve given anything to know what went racing through Aziraphale’s mind, after he’d offered for the angel to stay at his place. 

He wished he didn’t when Aziraphale settled for, “ _I don’t think my side would like that_.” 

Wasn’t that always it, though? _Sides, opposites, adversaries_. Hell. Heaven. Fallen. Not. 

Fear wrought an acid taste in his mouth, let him know just how fast he was speeding blindly downwards, but he went ahead anyways: “You don’t have a side anymore. Neither of us do. We’re on our own side.” 

And now they wallowed in the uncomfortable silence of his flat. Aziraphale found his way to Crowley’s overly-expensive couch. It wouldn’t be as comfortable as the one in the bookshop. _The burned-down bookshop, Aziraphale’s bookshop, the one that’s become a pile of ashes, yes._

Like many of the things in his flat, Crowley never really used it, more of a decoration piece than anything else, all sharp edges and black leather, and cold, silvery feet. 

Crowley became aware he was pacing, coiled tense, doing nothing for the already strained atmosphere, back and forth, back and forth, like a caged animal. Restless and alert where he should be relieved, exhausted, even. He couldn’t stop himself from pacing, even now that he knew; he itched to do _something_. A detour in his usual back-and-forth rhythm found him in the room full of plants that shuddered in terror upon his entrance. 

Checking over them soothed the buzzing energy that bubbled under his skin, the action itself coming naturally, letting his mind drift absently. Maybe a few plants were a tad overwatered in the process, but they knew better than to let their leaves yellow over such a thing. 

An ache in his back prompted Crowley to let his wings rustle into sight, folded loosely behind him. They needed to be preened, out-of-place quills prickling irritably, but at the moment, it could wait. He moved on to another plant instead, slipping his sunglasses off and storing them in his breast pocket. 

Footsteps alerted him to Aziraphale’s presence, and he turned away from his current task to face the angel, tucking his wings in tightly. The scent of old books—woody and dusty and faintly sweet—filled Crowley’s senses as Aziraphale drew near enough to touch, blue eyes flashing under the dim light, an endless, unpredictable ocean that he wanted to drown in. 

“Oh,” the angel breathed, attention landing on Crowley’s disheveled feathers. “I imagine mine must be much the same, though.” He gave a soft smile, and his wings appeared, then. Whispered into the barren grey of Crowley’s flat, disturbed the still air. Aziraphale stretched them, a sheepish look surfacing as a few snowy feathers descended slowly onto the floor. 

He took in a breath, seeming to steel himself, before looking back at Crowley, and it was him, this time, reaching towards raven plumage with a murmured, “May I?” His voice wavered slightly, expression open, vulnerable. Uncertain. Longing. 

All he could do was nod thoughtlessly, dumbstruck. Aziraphale rested a gentle hand on the bend of one wing, and Crowley extended the limb for him, the movement coming too easily, almost instinctive in nature. Fingers smoothed down the vane of an alula, sending a wave of pleasure jolting through him, and he came to his senses.

He stepped backwards, out of reach. “You’re…” he searched Aziraphale’s face, noting nothing but confusion and concern. Waving back and forth vaguely, Crowley continued, “And I’m…this isn’t…I mean—” He knew he was making no sense, tried to start over clumsily. “You aren’t—”

Aziraphale seemed to understand what he was trying to convey. “We’re on our own side now. Isn’t that what you told me, my dear boy?” Desperation dripped past the words that came from Aziraphale’s mouth, washed over their attempt at a calm demeanor. 

“Well, yeah, but—” Crowley stopped himself again. “Yeah.” 

He was speechless. Remained that way as Aziraphale led him into his own bedroom, onto the memory-foam mattress that hadn’t been slept in properly for years now. Until Aziraphale began again in his delicate ministrations, he’d waited stiffly, but he couldn’t help melting, just a little, as Aziraphale went on, feather by feather, running his touch cautiously along the shaft of a tattered primary, restoring it to its original sleekness. 

Crowley met Aziraphale’s eyes hesitantly, and that blue gaze mirrored how he felt. Unsure, afraid. A pit of doubt yawned open inside his chest, threatened to swallow him. Wondered how he, Fallen, twisted, unforgivable demon Crowley, was letting an angel preen his wings for him. Or whether he deserved it. 

He didn’t. Nor did he deserve to return the favor and lift a trembling hand to brush his fingers through Aziraphale’s silky feathers. But then, it wasn’t about who deserved what. Wasn’t an issue of _should_ or _shouldn’t_. He shouldn’t have tried to stop Armageddon, but he’d gone ahead and done it, and with Aziraphale by his side. Crowley’d never cared much about what he _should_ do. 

Trying to ignore the feeling of diving headfirst, of Falling with no idea of what awaited him at the bottom, he grazed his fingers through white down. Aziraphale didn’t pull away. Didn’t leap to his feet in horror, or protectively curl his wings away from Crowley. He just leaned into the touch, eyes half-closing like a contented cat’s. 

Emboldened by the reaction, he continued to straighten the fluffy plumes. The _feeling_ was back, affection that seeped into him, a warm sensation that he soaked up. Like basking under a mid-day sun. 

They remained quiet as they worked, save for the occasional relaxed sigh, or the faint _twang_ of bedsprings straining as one of them maneuvered into a position that made it easier to get at out-of-reach feathers. Crowley shook somewhat as Aziraphale moved on to his scapulars, those annoying, nearly-inaccessible _bothers_ , and _there_ —he stifled a blissful noise, and a grin flitted over Aziraphale’s features in response, obviously having noticed. 

Crowley should’ve been annoyed by it, but he was unable to muster much care about anything besides the contact between them. And anyways, Aziraphale was making similar reactions, purring and nudging into Crowley’s hands like the oversized cat he’d been compared to earlier. 

They were tangled up in each other’s laps, having listed closer over time, although something screamed to Crowley that it wasn’t close _enough_ , and Aziraphale’s gaze seemed to echo the sentiment. He pressed closer. The gesture was copied by Aziraphale, agonizingly slowly, hours spent spinning in free-fall before their lips met. Arms wrapped around him, steadying, and the world juddered to a halt, the dizzying impression of Falling fading away. 

Crowley gasped a breath, pushed away the painful tightening feeing in his throat, and held tighter to Aziraphale, who nuzzled impossibly deeper into the hold, soft, the most familiar thing on Earth, radiating love and trust, the smell of age-worn paper and cocoa, the sounds of his corporation’s heart beating, his lungs drawing in air, all comforting, all reassuring him, _I’m here_ , and Crowley never wanted to move from that spot again, could stay there until the world ended again. 

He knew they couldn’t, knew when the morning came they would have to face more. Had to hope that they’d interpreted the last prediction correctly, hope that it held true. But for now, for just a few hours, Crowley could pretend everything was fine. He had been for more than six thousand years, and one more night surely wouldn’t make a difference. 

—

Why they hadn’t done this before was a mystery to him. _This_ being sprawled on a miraculously unburnt bookshop’s roof, staring up at the sky. Wispy clouds, outlined in silver by the half-hidden moon, swept across the dark, star-scattered expanse, and a brisk breeze blew by, where, sheltered from inquisitive looks, an angel and a demon were side by side with their wings free, feathers fluttering in the gentle chill that sang of the coming autumn. 

There was something endlessly peaceful about it, a calm so profound in the unrelenting buzz of London traffic, in the dry, smoke-filled taste of whiskey lingering on his lips, in the brush of skin against skin, in the soft gleam of his angel’s blue eyes, meeting his and lacing their fingers together tighter. It was a grounded sort of peace, a steady presence that mantled Crowley protectively, filled him with a sense of comfort; a feeling foreign yet very, very welcome. 

He leaned closer, drinking in Aziraphale, drinking in the _closeness_ he was so certain he’d never have. It was hard to keep his focus on the sky. Crowley couldn’t seem to stop sneaking glances at the angel by his side, to check that yes, this was _real_ , that he was _still there_. 

Perhaps he hadn’t been as stealthy as he thought, though, because as he did it once more, Aziraphale wrapped a wing around him. It was a quiet reminder, a soothing gesture.

They stayed like that, static, lulled by the background that was the world, lost in one another for hours which may as well have been mere minutes. 

“It’s a nice night for flying,” Aziraphale noted softly as another draft meandered by, the down of his wings quivering in reply. 

“Maybe,” Crowley said, and remembered again. Repressed a shudder. Aziraphale shifted, leaned his head against Crowley’s shoulder, his wing a pressing weight, his grasp never loosening, anchoring him.  
“Maybe one night,” and he _meant_ the words, just how Aziraphale _meant_ , without giving it voice, that he wouldn’t let Crowley fall. 

The morning began to bleed into the sky far too soon for Crowley’s liking, milky dawn light blurring softly into the tranquil dark of night, evaporating it steadily, bit by bit, inch by swift inch. 

But they had time.

**Author's Note:**

> And there you have it. I’m slightly worried about this one, couldn’t really make it turn it out the way I wanted it to.  
> The bit with the raven in Hyde Park is based on accounts by William Henry Hudson, in his book _Birds of London_.  
> Thank you for reading, as always, loves! Comments and kudos highly appreciated! 
> 
> My [tumblr](https://incredulousanteater.tumblr.com/)!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Stronger Than Desire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20320519) by [Uniasus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Uniasus/pseuds/Uniasus)




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